The Nothing's Tale
by Gypsum Miirik
Summary: The story of Runethyn Dreloth, the Half Dunmer Assassin from her birth in Morrowind to her Death in Skyrim. Rated M for violence and sexual content, please review.
1. Chapter 1 and 2

_Chapter 1. 3E 207, 22 Sun's Dawn._

Gulitte looked down at the sleeping baby tucked into her arms and smiled. The infant looked more like her than she would have ever hoped for, her lovely pale skin, her full pouty lips, and there was even a small tuft of soft tawny bronze hair growing from the baby girl's mostly bare head, they had all come from her, though that wasn't to say that the baby didn't resemble her father. There were defiantly parts of him within her as well from her narrow face and high cheek bones to her pointed ears, but none the less Gulitte decided, she was certainly a Breton, just like her mother.

She brought up a small hand and gently caressed her sleeping daughter's face, rousing the infant from her sleep and causing her to open her eyes and echo her mother's smile. Gulitte gasped quietly and shook her head. Those eyes hadn't come from her. Even hidden within the baby's sweet chubby face those deep crimson eyes were shocking and against her pale skin seemed wrong, almost unnerving. With those eyes she would never be taken as anything less than what she was, a half-breed, a shame to both of her parent's families. During her pregnancy Gulitte had even considered returning to her family in High Rock, and raising her baby far away from Vvardenfell in the hope that her time there trying to rebuild the shrine in Ihinipalit would simply be forgotten. But now with her daughter's striking resemblance to her father there would be no hope of such a thing.

"May I come in?" came a deep, quiet voice from the other side of the door to her room, heavy with an eloquent Dunmer accent. The owner of the voice didn't wait for an answer before pushing open the large circular door and stepping into the dimly lit room, a breath of fresh cool, though unfortunately still mushroom scented air, entering with him. He was a handsome young Dunmer man with long ebony hair and the same deep crimson eyes that he had passed on to his child. He was of average height though his shoulders were unusually broad and the muscles of his arms and chest were hardened. His ashen skin was riddled with many fading scars and a large steel axe was strapped across his back.

"Tired, but much better." Gulitte answered, then she paused and her gaze wandered from the man down to the baby "Torik." She began, smiling at him "Would you like to hold your daughter?"

He blinked several times, taken aback, as if the realization of his becoming a father had just dawned on him.

"I…" he stammered and took several steps closer to the bed where Gulitte was laying. When he was at her side she extended the bundle against her breast in his direction. He hesitated for a long moment before gingerly taking the infant into his hands, cradling her within his iron arms. She looked up and flashed him a toothless grin, a tiny spit bubble popping audibly on her lips

"She looks like you." Torik said his eyes dancing over the baby.

"But she'll grow to look like you." Gulitte smiled, though there was a hint of something sad and distant in her voice, Torik seemed to have missed it, his attention fixed upon the child.

"What will you name her?" He asked as the baby extended a small fist and waved it about wildly. Torik grasped her tiny hand gently in his own and tucked it back into the blankets she was swaddled in.

"Did you have something in mind?" Gulitte asked curiously as she pulled a small purple glass bottle from a drawer in the bedside table. She pulled the cork from the narrow neck of the bottle and let several drops of a sweet smelling amber syrup fall onto her fingertip. She lifted it to her lips and opened her mouth, placing it under her tongue. Smiling first as the sweetness enveloped her mouth, and then again as a wave of euphoria began to wash over her.

Torik looked over at her and frowned "Where did you get that? I thought you'd quit for the baby." He asked, quiet and polite as ever, though his eyes smoldered, boring into her. Minas Torik Dreloth had never raised his voice in anger to anyone as far as Gulitte knew, especially not to her. But he had no need to rely on anger to punish her. In fact, on most occasions he didn't even need to speak, it was all in his eyes, his disappointment searing into her.

She snorted and placed the bottle back down on the table top "If you look at me like that for much longer, the flesh may actually melt from my face, and then she'll definitely look more like you than me."

"Gulitte." He said simply, his acidic gaze still unaltered.

She gave him a light sigh, a sigh of surrender "Yes, I did say that I would quit for the baby and I did." She paused and gestured towards the bundle in his arms. "But as you can see, I've had the baby, and besides this is on the midwife's orders, for the pain." She lied easily. She knew that the skooma was a bad when she was carrying the child. But now, what could the harm be? Despite the lie it did help the pain, and anyway she wasn't smoking it. Taken in this form it was only as harmful as the moon sugar that it was derived from.

He knew she was lying, he was really quite adept at reading people, and after the two years that he had spent with her it was as if he could read her mind; every one of her expressions holding its own secret, every line of her beautiful face telling him more than her words ever could, and her eyes, the same sweet gold and green of a summer afternoon were like windows to her heart, so easily revealing her intentions. He knew that she resented such things at times, and that this was probably one of those times. But along with her lie, he could also see the dark circles under her eyes and the light misting of sweat on her forehead. She'd had a long day, and he decided it was probably best to leave her for the time being.

"I would like to name her..." He paused and pursed his lips; his eyes distant as he tried to picture a face that he wasn't sure had been a memory or a dream. "After my mother. Runethyn."

"Runethyn Dreloth." Gulitte let the name roll off her tongue slowly as if she were trying to taste the meaning behind the words. It was a very dunmer name, unmistakably so. She repeated herself though this time echoing his accent. "It sounds like a wonderful name for _your_ daughter."

"You don't like it?" He asked cocking a curious eyebrow in her direction hearing the tiny hint of steel in her voice.

"No, it's lovely. I just, I was thinking of something a little more…oh I don't know." She shook her head and shrugged "I've grown rather fond of Rowanna, or Lyrrke or Vienne, something that reminds me of home." But as she spoke she caught the distant look in his eyes. She knew that though he had hardly known her as a child, Torik's mother had likely made him who he was, sweet, reserved and thoughtful. It was only later in his life that he became _what _he was.

Torik's lips parted slightly and he drew in a breath to respond, but she cut him off " No. You're right, none of those would sound very good with your surname, and she will grow to look more like you than me. I would be honored if she were named after your mother." She sat up further against her pillows and moved over on the bed, making room for him to lay next to her.

He moved into the vacant space, sitting on the bed and swung his legs up on the blankets, muddy boots and all. He passed the baby over to Gulitte and smiled at her. She took the now once again sleeping infant from his arms and cradled her in her own. She then brought up her hand and rested it on his jaw, her thumb tracing over the small scar on his bottom lip. Of all his nearly countless scars, that one had always been her favorite. She leaned in close and planted a gentle kiss on his neck, mostly because that was all she could reach.

He cradled her head and closed his eyes. Dunsalipal would be pleased with the child, though he was sure that his master would have preferred a son, to be honest, he himself would have preferred a son with dark hair and skin. It would have served them much better in their life. But as he gazed down upon what would be the only one related to him by blood that he'd ever truly known he couldn't help but smile. She was his legacy.

_Chapter 2. 3E 217, 14 MidYear._

Dunsalipal Dun-Ahhe furled his brow as he surveyed the line of young prospects. Their faces were eager; some were even smiling in anticipation of the day's trials.

_Those smiles won't last long _he thought to himself, and turned his face away so that the children wouldn't be able to hear him chuckle. It was a beautiful day, warmer than most this far north and a wonderful breeze was lifting the sweet scent of the sea from the port through the streets of the city. As he stood, the sun kissed his face and he was acuity aware of a small bead of sweat as it trickled down his tattooed cheek, he swiped it away and then turned back to the soon to be apprentices.

"Good morning." He said simply, keeping his face void of emotion.

"Good morning master." The youngsters repeated back, all except one.

Dunsalipal frowned and turned his gaze upon a young girl at the far end of the line. Though she stood at attention like the others, her expression was distant, and her mind was clearly elsewhere.

"Rune." He said sternly, and her crimson eyes snapped quickly to his face, sending a rebellious lock of silky bronze hair into her forhead.

She made no effort to straighten her appearance as she looked at him. "Yes master?" she asked innocently.

"Oh nothing dear." Dunsalipal said, crossing his arms and scowling at her "I was just wondering if you're here to join us, or if you got lost on your way to the privy."

She screwed up her young angular face, but her eyes didn't leave those of her master, proud as ever. "No master." She said quietly, obviously trying her best not to smile "I'm here for the trials."

"Then you'd do well to keep your attention fixed where it belongs." He continued and she nodded. He then turned back to the others. "This is quite possibly the most important day of your lives." He started, beginning to pace back and forth in front of the line as he spoke. "These trials will determine both to me, and to yourselves whether or not you are worthy to continue your training within the guild. I will break you into groups of three based upon what I know of your abilities. Each group will be tasked with finding an assigned target, and taking them down. The first member of each group to return to me successfully will become my personal protégés. The others, will have to find a master within the guild on their own accord."

A collective whisper rippled through the line and Dunsalipal continued " Runethyn, Marcus and Sivilli will be team one." The three named children stepped forward from the line, the Bronze haired girl at their head. Behind her the taller,full blooded dunmer girl Sivilli and then Marcus, a bright faced young imperial sporting a head of blonde hair and a particularly runny nose.

"Your target, is Alven Salas. He has graciously agreed to take part in this year's trials. His last know location was the ship Star-Follower in the harbor." The three nodded and then moved away from the line over to the far end of the training courtyard.

"Team two, Silas, Sarric and Dalse. Your target is Raven Omayn, her last know location was her privet chambers in the council hall." The three young dunmer boys all exchanged wide eyed looks. It was undoubtedly intimidating to hear the name of such a loved political figure as their target. But the Mouth of Mistress Dratha had always enjoyed being a part of the trials, and had been a regular volunteer for several years.

"And finally, team three, Yvaiin, Mah'Jo Lorrik. For your target Master Neloth has volunteered one of his slaves. A striped Suthay-raht male who will be left at the Gateway." Dunsalipal pursed his lips, the words tasted a bit bitter as they left his lips, and suddenly he regretted sending Mah'Jo after one of his own, especially considering that the young dark furred Suthay cub had been the offspring of two of the many slaves held at Tel Naga, but the experience would likely prove him stronger if he succeeded.

"The only rules are." The Morag Tong Master continued, now addressing the three groups of children as a whole. "You may not leave the city limits, and you may not harm your targets, or your competitors. Anyone who does, will answer to me. When I turn my back, the trials will begin, and they will end, when the last target is brought to me, or at sundown, whichever comes first. Good luck." Without another word he turned on his heel and began walking back in the direction of the guild hall.

Behind him, he could hear the sound of footfall as the young hopefuls rushed off into the city streets after their targets. Of course, no real blood would be spilled, but the mock assassinations would serve both the children and their master in the determining of their future positions within the Morag Tong. He himself had a particular eye on Sivilli, he'd even given her several privet training sessions in preparation for the trials, to assure that she would place within the top three, though he did feel poorly about giving her an unfair advantage, such promise like hers could not be wasted on trivial mistakes.

"Master!"

Dunsalipal turned to face the young Imperial man whom had spoken to him. Sillas, he was sweating, as most Imperial's did this time of year, but the expression on his face roused something within the grizzled Dunmer, something was very wrong.

The Imperial brought up a gloved hand and brushed a long strand of raven colored hair back out of his cool gray eyes "We found something near the shore, Torik said…..well, you'll want to see for yourself."

Dunsalipal followed the Imperial across the guild's property and down to where the sea kissed the sand of the island. The first thing he saw was Torik, standing with his muscular arms crossed over his chest. His expression was dark, but before the Dunsalipal had a chance to address him, he saw what Torik was standing over. There, at his feet, laying half in and half out of the water was a young Guar, or at least, what was left of it. A long piece of leather was looped around its neck, and tied tightly to the roots of one of the great mushrooms that served as the guild's residence. A long clean cut trailed all the way up its belly from its flank, to its throat. The blood that carpeted the sand was slowly being lifted away by the tide as the gentle waves lapped at the mutilated corpse. Several of calf's organs had been removed; liver, heart and stomach as well as a good portion of its intestines were spread out across the beach in a long straight line as if someone were taking inventory at a butcher shop. Wrapped around the calf's mouth and eyes was a long crimson scarf. It was impossible to tell what had killed the poor thing, the leather around its neck, the scarf over its mouth or whether it had simply bled to death, though the deep gouges in the earth around where it was laying suggested that it struggled quite a bit before the end.

"Who could have done this? Do you think it's a message from the Brotherhood?" Sillas asked of no one in particular, his eyes wide. The Dark Brotherhood had left things of a similar nature at their doorstep before. But this wasn't them, had it been the children of sithis they would be looking at the remains of one of their apprentices, not some helpless animal.

"No" Dunsalipal said quietly, his brow furling, half in disgust, half in thought "This wasn't the Brotherhood." He paused and frowned in the direction of the other Dunmer man. "Did you see anyone?"

Torik shook his head, but his eyes didn't leave the mess at his feet, his attention fixed particularly upon the red scarf.

The three stood in silence for several long moments before Dunsalipal spoke again.

"I'll send someone to clean this up later. It's probably nothing of consequence, and it's of no use to start lighting fires if there's nothing to burn, so we speak of this to no one until we have reason to do so." He said, and the other two men nodded their agreement, though the troubled look that they all shared stayed planted upon their faces as they walked back in the direction of the hall.

The sun had long passed its prime and was beginning its slow decent westward when the first of the children returned to the hall. Much to everyone's surprise it was not Sivilli who entered next to Alven, but Torik's daughter Runethyn, smiling brightly with the defeated Marcus in tow, the young boy's stricken expression seemed to be missed by all but Dunsalipal. The child's eyes were scared and long streaks in the dirt on his cheeks were visible left from recent tears.

"Where is Sivilli? Is she not with you?" asked a red haired dunmer woman, stepping out from behind the gathered crowd. The woman herself was a spitting image of Sivilli. Sivilli's mother. Her deep red eyes danced over the two returning children almost frantically.

"I don't know." Rune answered the smile that she wore earlier still playing at the corners of her lips "I haven't seen her sense this morning when we split up. She's not back yet?" Her young face was bright and joyful, but again the Morag Tong master seemed to have noticed something that no one else had. There was a large dark brown stain on one of the girl's shirt sleeves, and another on her boot, both on her right side, the same side as her blade hand.

"Oh come now Drava, I'm sure she'll be along shortly" Alven smiled in the red haired woman's direction, stepping forward to place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Drava nodded and turned back towards the living quarters, the rest of the assassins following behind her, smiling, laughing and praising the young half-breed. As they followed behind, Dunsalipal watched the young Runethyn grab Marcus' hand, he cringed under her touch and she drew him close, moving her mouth towards his face before releasing him and following the others towards the dining room for the coming celebration, leaving Marcus and Dunsalipal alone in the cavernous entrance chamber.

Dunsalipal couldn't hear what she'd whispered in the boy's ear, but as soon as she pulled away he began to sob quietly, the Dunmer man stepped forward out of the shadows and crouched down next to the crying child.

"Marcus" he said quietly "What's wrong? What did she say to you?"

The boy shook his head and wiped viciously at his eyes, chasing away the tears by force, he didn't look into his master's eyes when he said shakily "Nothing master. I'm alright."

"Do you know where Savilli is?" Dunsalipal persisted.

Marcus shook his head wildly "No. No, we split up. I don't know." He then moved away in the direction of the living quarters. His small shoulders still shaking with the effort of suppressing his sobs.

Dunsalipal let him leave, his steady gaze following him as he left and he made a note to press into the matter later, until then there were the other children to look to.

The fire was nearly dead in the hearth, and many of the guild memebers had retired to their privet chambers for the night. Though still, alone and in the near dark Dunsalipal sat. It had been a long day, and he would have three new apprentices to tend to in the morning, but still something kept him from rest. Savilli had not returned yet, and now with the comming of the moons a search party had been sent out.

Dunsalipal sighed, and rubed his tired eyes standing up and moving in the direction of the staircase leading up to the second story. As he passed the heavy door barring the entrance to Torik's families privet chambers he could hear voices on the other side. He paused and listened.

"I found the scaf that I gave you, don't lie to my Runethyn." came Torik's voice, calm and collected as always.

"I wasn't lying." answered an equally calm but much younger and femine.

There was a long pause before she answered "I just...I wanted to see what it looked like."

"Why would you do that?" Torik asked his daughter, ignoring her defence.


	2. Chapter 3

Chapter 3. 3E 223, 15 Frostfall.

The early morning sun was streaming in through his window when Drathos Arris fell unwillingly back into consciousness. His tongue lashed out across his parched lips and for a long while he simply laid in bed and tried to will himself back to sleep. As he did so, short flashes of the previous night began to slowly work their way back into his memory like grains of sand trickling into the bottom of an hourglass. First drinking at the Black Skalk, then being thrown from the whole foreign quarter by force, then finally falling into the bed at the Inn that he was laying in now sometime around dawn. He also seemed to remember a rather attractive young woman being there at some time. Smiling to himself he reached out across the top of the blankets, searching for the soft touch of bare skin that would confirm his fantasies. This eventually turned out to be useless, and to make matters worse, he had to piss. With a groan he brought his arms underneath himself and opened his eyes.

"Oh good, you're awake. I was beginning to wonder if I would be of any use at all" A deep and sensual feminine voice poured out of the far corner of the room like blood from a wound. "Though I must say, drinking yourself to death would have been quite a bit less painful."

Drathos spun to face the owner of the voice. As he sat up, his stomach heaved from the rapid movement causing him to lean over the side of the bed and vomit up what remained of the previous night's frivolities.

Whoever it was, was lounging in a chair watching him, their legs crossed and their arms wresting on their knees. Their face was covered by a strange looking leather mask that in some ways resembled the face of a dunmer man, but then again in some ways resembled the face of a Guar, and an unattractive Guar at that.

The masked one laughed and lithely swung up from the chair, as they did so they brought up a gloved hand and pulled away the mask. Revealing a cascade of tousled bronze hair and a youthful angular face that admittedly was quite beautiful, save for her eyes. Unnerving and strange against her all too human skin her eyes were a deep, hungry crimson, just like his own. Her face was blank, almost serene as she surveyed the room, but those eyes were wild, even feral as they danced frantically over the scene before her, taking in every detail and her nostrils flared with every breath as if she were scenting the air for something. Up this close she was short, so short in fact that her chin would probably have come only to his chest were he standing, but her frame was that of a worrier, with strong shoulders large breasts and wide hips.

As she crossed the room towards him, absently her hand found its way down to the hilt of her sword where she began to run her fingers over the pommel, like a child fiddling with their favorite toy for lack of something better to do with their hands. When she was his side, she casually ran her hands through her hair, pushing several rebellious tawny locks back out of her face.

She then grabbed the rest of her hair and lifted it off the right side of her neck, twisting it around her fingers and laying it over her left shoulder, exposing a pierced and pointed ear, as well as a very fresh tattoo. The skin around the lettering was even still red. The elegant daedric characters scrolled across her neck, appearing to be the beginning of a poem or a sermon, it began "Blessed are the Murderous, for they have found beauty in the grotesque." The next line began similarly with "Blessed are the…" but the rest disappeared further down her neck under her cuirass.

"Who the hell are you?" Drathos demanded.

She smiled as she replied "Housekeeping."

Everything moved very quickly after that. Almost at once she had pounced and was on top of him, straddling his waist with one of her knees against his groin and her blade pressed up against his throat. His mind, still foggy from the previous night spun and he feared that he would vomit again. He blinked several times still struggling to comprehend what had happened.

"I wouldn't bother screaming were I you." She said, her voice still serene and collected, as if she were trying to sell him alchemical ingredients " You'll find your personal guards to be quite indisposed at the moment, you see, I'm here on behalf of Sillmerria, you do remember her don't you, tall, Altmer long black hair?"

He didn't respond, his face blank with fear and lack of understanding, she disregarded his silence and continued.

"No matter, because she certainly does remember you, you did rape her sister after all."

"No No I…" Drathos stammered, but she placed her hand firmly over his mouth, he wriggled his arms underneath her but she leaned forward hard in to his groin, prompting a muffled yelp from the other side of her hand.

She shook her head, her tone now taking on that of a mother disciplining a young child "Now now, were I you, I wouldn't try to move around much either. You see, the quicker we get this over with, the quicker I can be on my way, so I'll tell you how it's going to go."

Drathos swallowed hard, trying desperately to fight against the growing lump in his throat. He did remember Sillmerria, he remembered how she'd found him all those weeks ago, her unconscious sister in his arms, the way that she'd cried when she'd learned what he'd done to her, and even after the guards had burst in, and taken him away in shackles, he'd spent only a week imprisoned over the whole incident. After all, the Imperial judges were rather fond of him, and more to the point they were rather fond of his ties to house Hlaalu.

"I'm going to slit your throat from ear to ear, then I think I'll stay to see what happens, because I really am wondering…will you suffocate, or will you drown in your own blood first?"

Drathos started to struggle wildly, his muffled screams were shoved back down his throat by her strong grip as she pressed the blade against his flesh. His vision blurred with tears as she pulled the icy metal through his skin. Bolts of acidic sensation crawled across his scalp, followed by an unbearable searing pain, then came the sickening and audible "pop" when his windpipe finally gave way under the pressure. She pulled her hand away from his mouth and his diaphragm convulsed, his lungs trying to expel the blood that was now pouring into them. Though as his throat closed he only gaged, sending what little was still in his stomach up and into the gaping hole now in his neck.

With tears now streaming down his face the girl brought her blade through the very last right portion of his neck, immediately he was drenched in his own blood, hot wet and acrid it poured from him and onto the sparse straw mattress.

Seemingly satisfied with her work the girl sat back and re sheathed her blade. Slowly dismounting him and placing her feet back on the floor. Smiling as she began to pace back and forth in front of the bed.

As his mind began to cloud, Drathos felt his bladder release, flooding the pool of blood now surrounding him with urine, though he almost didn't notice. Something heavy was pulling at his very soul, dragging him away from the horror. It was almost as if he was being slowly submerged in a tub of deep cool water, the pain was slowly draining away, being replaced by a frigid emptiness. Black spots began to appear in front of his eyes, first dancing; disappearing and reappearing at will as if they possessed some kind of ethereal consciousness of their own, harbingers of the next world, calling for him.

"Do you feel that?" came a voice, sweet though distant, as if the speaker was on the other side of a pane of glass. "You're dying Drathos."

His lips parted, he wanted to tell whoever was speaking to be quiet, to leave him to the stillness that he was so quickly approaching, he wanted quiet, but the voice wouldn't stop.

"Now, I've never experienced this for myself. But I must admit that I'm quite fascinated, and am rather knowledgeable on the subject, but this is meant to be a learning experience, so do please feel free to stop me if I've got something wrong." She continued "I've been told, that your scenes should be leaving you in a rather ordered manner. Right now your vision should be going, in a couple seconds, you wont be able to see anything. Then touch and taste, and as they say, when one diminishes the others flourish, well following that logic, I'd wager that you can still even smell my perfume."

Drathos could feel himself slipping away, he needed to go, whatever was pulling at him was gaining strength, but that voice. Now it was even louder than ever, as if it were only inches from his ear. Pounding against his fading mind.

"The last to go, is your hearing, and if my sources are correct, then you'll be able to hear my voice….even after your heart stops beating."

((Short I know, but I'd rather have it be short and sweet than long and ramblish. So I'm planning on doing frequent but short updates, so stay tuned (: ))


	3. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4. 3E 223, 20 Frostfall.**

It was still fairly early in the afternoonwn as Gulitte sat in front of her mirror, meticulously pulling a comb through her long bronze hair, humming her favorite tune; a brilliant dramatic ballad about the famed mercenary Cyrus and his battle with Clavicus Vile. Suddenly she noticed something that she hadn't noticed before. She frowned and leaned forward in her chair, moving her face in very close to the mirror. There at the corner of her eye, a new line was beginning to form, reinforcing not only to her, but to the whole rest of the damn world that she was growing old. She sighed and leaned back, returning to her combing.

As she pulled it though an unfortunately tangled patch, one of the teeth of the comb caught a snarl, and as she pulled harder to disentangle it, the strength in her hand gave way, sending the comb clattering to the floor. She looked at her hand and flexed her fingers several times, she was shaking.

Her hands were growing so weak, and for nearly a year now her joints had ached constantly. Almost subconsciously she pulled down the left sleeve of her loose silk robe and turned towards the mirror to get a better look at what was hidden there.

Scrolling across her bicep in daedric it read _"Blessed are the Addicts, may they quench the thirst that never ebbs." _

She shook her head; when she was younger she had worn those words so proudly. Skooma was a gift from Sheogorath, and every time she used it, it brought her spirit close to him. Though these days, she was beginning to feel the damage it did to her body, her eyesight, her memory and even the dexterity in her hands were fading. Slowly her fingertips traced over the words, slightly faded from time but still bold and clear.

For almost seven generations every member of her family had carried similar marks, showing their loyalty to the Mad God, including her daughter. Torik of course was a bit unsettled by the idea of a 16 year old girl wearing such a violent symbol, but Gulitte had known sense she was a very young child that her daughter had been touched by the Prince, just as she had been.

Runethyn herself probably didn't have much of a concept of the symbolism behind her new tattoo, but Gulitte hoped that in time she would come to love and worship Sheogorath, it was after all in her blood.

"Oh! Speaking of blood." Gulitte said aloud as she only just remembered the reason that she'd come back into her families chambers in the first place. Earlier that same morning a package had arrived all the way from High Rock, her father's sword, Niarhaanin.

It had been nearly a year ago that she'd sent the letter home to High rock, pleading to her brother to relinquish the sword. It wasn't like she would have been any use to him anymore. Though he'd always been so fond of her, he would never be able to put her to good use again, even for all of his boasting Gaston had never been much of a worrier, sure he would swing her about to scare off the occasional highwayman, but he was by nature a gentle spirit, and artist in paint and charcoal, not blood and steel. So she had sat for over twenty years on his mantle, rusting. But now she was here, and would soon have a new master, one whom Gulitte was sure would love and appreciate her for what she truly was. Gulitte rose from her chair and moved over to the large wooden chest at the foot of their bed.

The heavy lid gave an audible creek of protest as she lifted it away and pulled out a something long and thin, wrapped in light silky fabric. She set it on the bed and began untying the small strings holding the wrappings in place. Even through the fabric she could feel the strange energy being emitted by the sword, humming beneath her fingertips.

Gulitte shivered deliciously as she thought of seeing the beautiful weapon again for the first time in so many years. She remembered the stories that her father used to tell about her, as if she were his companion, his lover, an extension of his very soul.

The sword herself had been in their family for many years, passed down from father to son along with the tale of its origin.

A smile broke across her face before she could stop it as Gulitte pulled the last of the thin ties loose, freeing the blade from her bindings.

"The years have been so kind to you" Gulitte whispered to the gleaming sword. Any scholar worth their weight would have recognized her for what she was instantly. From the gold inlay on the hilt to the tip of the narrow curved blade everything about her sang of her origins to the Far East, across the sea, in Akavir, the land of Dragons. Of course, when the war had been won, and the Tsaesci sailed home in the First Era, echoes of their culture still lingered all over Tamriel, especially in the lands of the east, Morrowind included. The katana, tanto and the far flung wakizashi had all been left behind, and even now so many years later one could walk into a blacksmith and find a weapon of similar shape, and though, while there were all of fine craft, the blades forged now were nothing but shadows of their predecessors.

Many of Tamriel would claim that the finest steel in all of Nirn was forged in the far north, in Skyrim where man had made his first stand upon Dawn's Beauty, and it was true that very few had ever come against the icy edge of Skyforge steel and walked away, but the Snake-like smiths of Akavir endowed every one of their blades with a power that even they perhaps did not understand, for it was said that they instilled all but a beating heart within their enigmatic creations.

Blood-Drinkers, they used to be called in the days when Talos was no more than an elven word meaning storm crown and the Emperor Reman still battled the heartland high elves, as they would never rust, they would never break, even if they had been enchanted their power would never wane, but grow stronger with every drop of blood that fell upon their blade.

It had been Gulitte's own great-great grandfather that had found her, laying in the snow, lost and forgotten in the northern reaches of Pale Pass, right where she had fallen so many centuries ago after her master had been cut down by the Cyrodillic forces with so many of his comrades.

He had taken it as a gift from the Princes of Oblivion that she had stayed hidden, away from prying eyes and hungry fingers for so long, almost as if she were waiting for him.

When he died and passed her on to his son he made the young Breton swear to always put her to use, to never let her lay without purpose, and for many generations the Cienne family had kept that promise, at least until very recently.

Gulitte scoffed, it was a crime, a travesty against their families honor. So long Niarhaanin had wasted away on a mantle in High Rock at the hands of her brother.

Tradition dictated that it be passed on to the first son, it was only by chance that her eldest brother had been killed and Gaston had taken the blade for himself. She didn't deserve to be punished like that, she had missed the kiss of flesh upon her edge, Gulitte could tell.

Stepping back from the bed, Gulitte turned and pushed open the large circular door that lead to the rest of the Sadrith Mora Guild Hall. The common living area was nearly deserted, save for a lean, red haired Dunmer woman draped over a chair infront of the empty hearth, a book resting in her lap.

"Drava" Gulitte asked as she stepped out the door and moved across the room to stand next to her"Have you seen Rune yet today?"

The dunmer woman looked up from her book. It had been six years sense her daughter had disappeared during the Apprentice Trials, and though she'd stayed with the Morag Tong she hadn't taken an active writ sense. It had happened slowly, and those around her could see it happening, as time passed, her hope drained away, these days she was neither here nor there, she was simply a ghost, drifting aimlessly. Nothing reflected this more than her eyes, and as she looked up to answer, Gulitte could see her own reflection, drowning in the ocean of sorrow pooling within those eyes.

"She came through here with Mah'Jo not long ago; they were headed to the courtyard." Drava said quietly, looking not at Gulitte, but through her.

"Thank you" Gulitte said simply before flashing the empty dunmer a weak smile and heading for the door. As she walked she couldn't help but let her mind wander to the day when she had finally coaxed the truth from her daughter. Hardly a month ago had the subject of the long missing Sivilli come up between the two as they sat togeather on the beach, watching the comings and goings of the port.

Gulitte hadn't been shocked in the least to learn that Rune had known where Sivilli had been all along. She'd been so proud of her child as she recounted the events without regret or trepidation. Rune had told her that she'd killed the guar calf more out of curiosity than anything, but that she'd also been so fascinated by how easy it was, and by how she'd enjoyed it, and on the day of the Trials, when she knew that Sivilli would have beaten her in a fair game, she'd taken her life without hesitation. Calculated and quick, just as she had done with the guar calf she wrapped her small hands around the other girl's neck and pressed down against her throat until she stopped moving, and the light left her eyes. She'd then hidden her body under a pile of ropes and extra rigging.

It was ingenious, especially for a ten year old, she'd left no evidence, even after nearly a year of searching no body had ever been found, and it was likely that the poor sailors were halfway to Solitude before they even knew Sivilli was there.

Rune had carried that truth for six years with no guilt, in fact when she finally admitted it to her mother, she had been smiling, and expected to be praised for her cleverness in keeping the secret for so long, and Gulitte had praised her, it was rare, even among those blessed by the Mad God for a child to be so pure, to be unaffected by emotions that so often weakened those around them.

Her husband though would have to go the rest of his days not knowing that secret, he feared the gifts that his child had been given. He rarely spoke to her these days, especially after her initiation and the completion of her first writ.

Gulitte knew that it pained him to see the sweet child that he once knew to grow so cold, so distant.

The ethereal clang of steel against steel interrupted her thoughts as she stepped out into the warm afternoon. Rune was right where Drava said that she would be, in the courtyard with the young Khajiit.

"No No" Mah'Jo purred as Rune stood to face him, a blade in her right hand held high above her head, and a dagger in her left, tight against her side "Put your weight back on your left foot. Again."

With that Rune sprung at him, taking three long strides in his direction before jumping into the air, brining both blades down.

The Khajiit countered quickly, arching his back and throwing up his lithe arms, crossing his two daggers over his chest. He caught her sword between them and in the blink of an eye he spun around, sending her blade to the ground and throwing her off balance enough that all it took was a quick blow from his knee to send her into the ground.

"I told you, weight back." Mah'Jo said his clever feline smile spreading across his dark lips "If you want to move like Khajiit, you must first stand like Khajiit."

Rune laughed, wrinkling her nose as she squinted up at him through the bright sun "I'm not sure that's entirely fare, after all, you do have a tail to balance with."

"Pah, so many excuses." Mah'Jo smiled, leaning over and offering her his hand.

She took it quickly and yanked him down to the ground with her, sending them both into a rolling ball of laughter and fur.

"Cheat" he hissed teasingly, pulling back the skin of his muzzle and laying back is ears.

She snorted "Cheater is simply the losers word for clever."

Gulitte smiled, it warmed her heart to see her daughter so happy, and even more so to know that she was about to make her even more happy.

"Rune" she called out in the direction of the wrestling teenagers "would you come inside for a moment, I have something for you."

((Sorry this took so long, I was hoping to upload on a daily basis, but I got a little side tracked haha. I hope that all of my TES lore facts are correct and if not, do please review and tell me what I got wrong (: ))


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